Unholy Allies
by Kovitlac
Summary: Clint Barton, the greatest marksman S.H.I.E.L.D. has ever known, is sent to Kosovo to assassinate his toughest target, yet - the notorious Black Widow. I write Clint as a mix of the MCU, comics and cartoon versions. Basically, he's kind of an asshat, but he's the best kind of asshat ;) Trigger warnings: Some language and torture. No explicit scenes.
1. Chapter 1

_Clint felt his body being dragged over what had to be concrete as he began to come to. He groaned, or rather, he felt himself groan, but the sadly familiar sound never reached his ears. Which was also sadly familiar._

 _Thin, barely noticeable vibrations through the ground informed him someone – likely multiple someones – was speaking. His hand went to his head; first his right ear, then his left. His aids were in place, but something was very obviously wrong. A heavy, calloused hand smacked his arm back down before roughly yanking him vertically. His head swam and stars dotted his vision as the heavy blackness began to clear._

 _He was kneeling in what appeared to be the unfinished basement of a normal, two-level house. The lighting was dim, and his vision still shaky, but he managed to make out what little furniture there was. A few folding chairs against the near wall, with a cheap television set against the opposite one. Both the television and the few lights scattered around seemed to be hooked up to a small generator in the far corner. As far as he could tell, the house itself didn't even have electricity._

 _A heavy-set man made his way behind the archer, yanking him up by a fist full of blond hair. "The Administrator will be most pleased." Clint fought down a yell of pain, once again raising his hands – which he realized were now cuffed together. The man peered at him intently, and at such close a range, Clint couldn't help but shudder at the sick amusement in the man's eyes._

" _You brought us S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Natalia." He sneered, roughly shoving Clint's head away. Clint felt the faint rumble through the floor, but otherwise, couldn't hear a thing. He did, however, spot a familiar slender figure emerge from the hallway ahead._

"… _Nat?..."_

 **S.H.I.E.L.D. Washington Headquarters**

 **May, 2004**

"Identify confirmed. Agent Barton, Clint." The terminal drawled, reading Barton's fingerprint. The double-doors slid apart, and he strode into the debriefing room, one of many aboard SHIELD's most popular flagship, the Helicarrier.

"You sounded serious over the comm, Nicky." He slid into a seat at the large, polished table in the center of the room, regarding Fury with some amount of curiosity. "Like…more serious than usual."

"I _always_ sound serious." Fury remarked dryly, unimpressed. "And get your feet off the table, before I have you clean it." He dropped a plain-looking manila folder on the table in front of the agent. Barton reluctantly pulled his feet off their resting place, reaching for the document.

"You're no fun."

"Read it." Fury crossed his arms over his chest. He had little patience for Barton's attitude, today.

Clint snorted and opened the folder. His eyes were immediately drawn to a photo of a sharp-looking, hawk-eyed woman with startlingly red hair. He blinked, furrowing his brow, before giving a crooked grin.

"Not a bad looker."

"Save it. I'm not setting you up on a date. She's your next target."

The agent returned his eyes to the photo, than let them linger over the text off to the right.

" _The Black Widow_. Says she's credited with over thirty-seven…" His eyes widened. "Thirty-seven assassinations?" Clint closed the folder, pushing it away. "Never knew you to have bad intel, Fury. This can't be right."

"It _is_ right." The Director reopened the file before sliding it back in Clint's direction. "You should know. You gathered a considerable amount of the information we have on her, yourself."

" _Au contrare_ , Nicky." Clint smirked. "I think I'd remember a face like that."

"Save the accent – you're not French. You mean this one?" Fury pulled out another photo, this one detailing a blond woman in a ponytail with a scar on her mouth. And another one, showing a brunette with a bob and glasses. Each photo had a different name and birth date, but side-by-side, there was little mistaking who each woman actually was.

Natasha Romanov.

The Black Widow.

"You're shitting me…" Clint stared at each photograph in turn, then at the accompanying text. Eleven assassinations, here. Seven more, there. She never seemed to stick with an identity for very long. Just long enough to get on SHIELD's radar, and then disappear. Presumably for good.

"Our intelligence puts her in Kosovo 's capital city, Pristina, as of two days ago. You're shipping out in four hours."

Clint frowned at the packet of information, leafing through the glossy photos. He stopped at the red-haired one, the one he had originally seen. It could be just one more disguise in the Widow's arsenal of deceit, but for some reason, one he couldn't quite put his finger on, he suspected this was the real her. The real Widow.

"Want me to put together a team?"

"I've already taken care of that." Fury replied, dismissively. "It was pretty easy, considering I don't want anyone else in on this at all. You're going in solo."

"It's about time." Clint murmured, still staring intently at the photos. While he usually took on larger missions with a small team, he always preferred running things alone. It was far more dangerous, but to be perfectly honest, he was the only one he trusted to keep himself alive. It could be a lonely existence, but it was the one he wanted.

He offered Fury the packet, but the Director shook his head. "Keep it. Catch up on your reading during the flight. You'll need something to keep you busy for seven hours."

Clint snorted, tucking the packet under his arm. One of the photos slipped out, and he crouched to grab it. He slowly stood back up, eyes once again drawn to the woman's shockingly red hair. "…maybe I'll show her my incredible skills at darts." He raised an eyebrow.

Fury somehow managed to appear unimpressed. "Maybe you should practice your pick-up lines instead, Barton."

"Making the drop in three minutes." The voice rumbled over the comm. Clint hunched down near the rear of the carrier, just a foot or two from the hatch. He checked and double-checked his gear, making sure everything was secured tightly into place. Little good it would do him to have spent forty minutes packing, just to lose it all because he was careless during a dangerous drop. Not that he didn't always have a duffle bag ready to go in case a mission sprang up, but this time was different from most others. He was going in solo. There was no relying on anyone else to watch his six. And with a target as dangerous as the Black Widow, he had to be prepared for anything.

"Remind me again why you couldn't fly me in, commercially?" Clint keyed into his comm, leaning back against the bulkhead of the jet. "First-class, a drink or two… Extra peanuts. Wouldn't have killed you, Nicky."

"It'd take you another two hours to reach the city, and we don't have that kind of time to spare." Fury's voice crackled momentarily. "But if you keep this up, I'll make sure you spend the flight back behind the sickest kid on the plane."

"Sorry Nicky, my hearing aids are cutting out. I missed that!" Clint complained, before cutting the transmission. While it was mostly a hassle, being roughly 80% deaf had at least a few minor benefits…including the ability to selectively tune out whoever happened to be particularly annoying, on any given occasion.

Usually it was Fury, but…what the Director didn't know certainly wouldn't hurt him. Although Clint suspected Fury knew more then he let on. Directors of shady, pseudo-governmental information and logistics agencies were like that, Clint figured.

"Initiating drop sequence." The pilot's voice droned from the intercom. Clint felt the engines slow as the jet started to descend, as well as his stomach rise alongside the g-forces.

"Remind me to bring you back a joke book, or something!" He yelled back to the pilot, over the rumbling discourse of the engines. The pilot ignored him – either that, or he had the same selective hearing benefits Clint did – and the jet reached its new altitude of two-hundred meters.

The bay of the jet rumbled to life, and the hatch swung slowly open. A sharp gust of cool, Mediterranean air splashed across the archer's face. He inhaled sharply, than slowed his breathing. The trick to pulling off a successful drop was to relax, beforehand… Tense up too early, and a mistake was bound to happen. Three years at S.H.I.E.L.D. had taught him a lot, but that one lesson was probably the most important of them all. Clint shouldered the duffel across his back and stood up, keeping his feet spread apart for maximum balance. Raising his favorite weapon – a custom-built, 250-lb draw weight compound bow – he aimed down through the murky fog at the edge of the city, below.

"We're one-hundred, seventy meters over the suburb of Podujevo. Roughly three and a half miles from the center of Pristina."

"When I get back, I'm bringing you a joke bo- "

"Heard you the first time. Save the jokes for your target."

 _Ouch_. "I doubt she'd appreciate them."

"Then that makes two of us."

Clint grinned, squinting through the fog. "Everyone's a comedian…" He murmured.

"You're cleared for infiltration."

"Don't wait up!" Clint called back, before stepping off the hatch and into the calm, still night sky.

 _Perfect…_

The air felt amazingly good, rippling past him like an ocean current. The engines from the S.H.I.E.L.D. jet roared over-head, although they felt nothing like the roar of blood rushing through his head. He forced himself to stay upright and oriented, watching as the village center rushed toward him.

There was _nothing_ like stepping out of a spy plane in the middle of the night, and letting yourself fall the equivalent of forty stories. Anyone who said otherwise was kidding themselves.

Then, it was time. Clint's back muscles tensed to the point of rigidity. He let out his breath, and relaxed his fingers. The bow released, and the grappling arrow flew through the air, cutting through the murky fog like a hot knife through butter. It impacted against the side of the moderately-high bell tower in the center of the village – the highest landmark in the outskirts of the city. Clint gripped the bow with every ounce of strength he had. The grapple cable ran through a specially-woven seam in his right shooting glove, to the quiver he wore across his back. The remaining length of tether coiled tightly at the very bottom, all one-hundred and fifty meters of it. Not that Clint had any intention of letting it get to max length – all he had to do was hit a button on his bow to apply an effective break to the cord. He could free-fall without holding on if he wanted to, but who in their right mind would dare take that chance?

The cable grew taut. Clint swung easily from the slack end, his feet impacting with the heavy brick of the bell tower. He bent his legs to soften the blow, but it still ached every single time. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he stared down at the street below. A few street lights dotted the strip, creating an eerily dim atmosphere. He couldn't see a single soul. Which was fortunate, as he had no idea how he'd even begin to explain this to the average passer-by.

He climbed up the tether, letting the slack coil itself back up at the bottom of his quiver. About three-fourths of the way up, he came across the front window. Clint never ceased to be amazed with how well his previous of crime had actually prepared him for a career with S.H.I.E.L.D… Although even in his crime-ridden days, he hadn't typically resorted to breaking and entering.

Funny, how S.H.I.E.L.D. was turning him into more of a criminal now than he ever had been, before.

Clint climbed up a couple feet past the window. With two-three well-aimed kicks, the panel of glass shattered and rained down over the side of the building, and the sidewalk below. Clint carefully climbed into the tower, resting briefly on the sill before touching his boots to solid ground, at last. At the same time, he triggered the grapple tip of the arrow to dislodge from the brick, and wind its way back to the bottom of his quiver. Clint backed away from the now-open window, taking a few steps into the interior of the tower.

It was another successful landing.

The young woman stared out over the calm, cool night sky. She had heard the faint rumble of jet engines overhead not fifteen minutes before. It had been enough to pique her curiosity, and she reminded herself that the Pristina airport was to the north, not the south.

So what was a plane doing this far out of its typical flight path?...


	2. Chapter 2

**Unholy Allies**

 _The heavy-set man leaned over the captive, leering at the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with something akin to sick glee; the way a hyperactive child with zero supervision might look at a room full of candy. Clint found himself nearly choking on the man's near-toxic breath. Just past him, he caught a brief glance of her – Natasha Romanov – and he felt his stomach lurch, catching sight of the amused smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth._

 _"He does not seem so tough here,_ моя девушка _." He drawled in his thick, Russian accent. "You sure he proper S.H.I.E.L.D. agent? Look like typical blond American_ собака _, to me." He cuffed the agent about the head. Clint hissed in pain, drawing back against the chains that otherwise held him firmly in place. The burly man was too tall, and the light just beyond his head made it difficult to make out his face, making lip-reading all but impossible. But Natasha was another story… As imperfect an art form as lip-reading was, he knew if she just spoke up, he'd be alright. She'd pull through for him. She had to._

 _Natasha laughed. Clint couldn't hear it, but it cut cruelly through him all the same. He felt nothing but cold dread in the pit of his stomach. A second cuff from the large man sent his head reeling, and his vision was once again swallowed by blackness._

 **Pristina, Kosovo**

 **2004**

"Our intel places her still within the city limits."

Clint shielded his eyes from the sun, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of simple black shades. He slipped them on, peering around the crowded marketplace.

"Yeah, well, last I checked, there were almost two-hundred thousand people living here, Fury." Clint grumbled into his earpiece. A short, blond woman with bangs passed him by on the left, giving him an odd look. He gestured to his ear, gave her a crooked grin and mouthed _Bluetooth_. She shrugged and continued on her way.

"Unless you got something better for me, or plan on telling me why I'm _actually_ here…"

"If you'd bothered reading through the informational packet you left with, you'd know our data places the Widow at roughly that exact location several times last week." Fury's voice came through with some measure of exasperation, but Barton detected not one hint of surprise. Perhaps the Director was beginning to know him all too well.

It was strange working with the Director directly, rather than through Coulson. Fury made it clear to Clint that taking the Widow out was his top priority, and in doing so, he wanted to keep the chain of command as simple as possible. Besides, he was convinced that the Widow was the most resourceful assassin S.H.I.E.L.D. had ever come up against, and the fewer people who knew about the mission, the less likely it was to be leaked back to her.

"I read your packet." He lied, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets and shuffling hastily through the crowd. The air was thick with the combined smell of gasoline, cigarettes and groceries. Vendors called out to potential customers, as well as each other, in a mixture of mostly Serbian and English. Languages weren't Clint's strong suit, but he knew bits and pieces, and the occasional English helped a little as well.

"So, what was our little spy doing here?"

"That's what _you're_ there to find out… Sniff around. Let me know what you find."

Clint sighed as the comm switched off on the Director's end. Fury might as well have asked him to find a literal red-haired spider in a two-hundred-square-mile haystack. Even if the Widow had visited this exact spot several times, there was no indication she'd return again anytime soon, if at all. Not if she burned through her drop-off locations as quickly as she burned through her identities.

Yeah, and then there were those… Her damn disguises. He wasn't even necessarily looking for a red head. She could be blond, brunette or purple-haired, for all he knew. Still, his agent-minded brain reminded him there was still some information they had on her… She wasn't a complete ghost story. Rather, she was a twenty-year-old Russian spy and assassin, and like anyone else stuck far away from home, she'd likely be itching for a little something familiar.

Fortunately for Clint, there was a little Russian-style café in the marketplace. He wondered how good their _borscht_ was.

* * *

The spy eyeballed the newcomer from her usual spot in the far corner of the café. She hadn't seen him around before. And that actually meant something, even in a city of so many people. A Russian restaurant in a Serbian country didn't get the most business. Regular customers were all mostly Russian immigrants or travelers. Even from across the room, Natasha could tell this newcomer wasn't the slightest bit Russian. Which, she hated to admit, piqued her interest, if only a little.

She watched the stranger ask for a seat, and her eyes followed him as he made his way over to the opposite corner of the café, before rolling as she heard him ask for a menu. Typical American tourist. She reached up and subtly adjusted her new hair. She wore a short-cut black wig, today. Maybe she didn't look distinctly Russian, but that was all part of the job. All part of throwing her victim unaware.

Her current target was a middle-aged Spanish banker, staying in the area while on vacation. Apparently, Mrs. Fierro had made friends – and subsequently parted ways – with the wrong people. In this case, someone very high up on the KGB's list of friends. Normally, an asset as valuable as herself wasn't sent to deal with something so insignificant. And she wouldn't be, if Mrs. Fierro didn't have access to sensitive information, or ties to an American agent working for the FBI. What, exactly, that information was, Natasha herself was not privy to. It mattered little, however, in the grand scheme of things. Her handler wanted the woman dead. Natasha had been deployed in less than four hours, and had spent a little over a week tracking down Fierro's whereabouts, and learning her schedule.

A schedule that currently placed her at a popular frozen yogurt bar just across the street. According to Natasha's mental log, Fierro was due to reemerge in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Natasha had a bit more time to spare. Mrs. Fierro was incredibly punctual.

She sighed as the blond American gestured in confusion to the waiter, who stomped off to the kitchen, hissing angrily under his breath in Russian. Natasha couldn't help but smile in cool amusement to herself. Tourists really did make for the finest entertainment, around.

* * *

Clint leaned against the back of the booth, surveying the tiny Russian diner. He hadn't really wanted to cause the waiter so much frustration, but hell if it wasn't Clint's fault he didn't speak Russian.

 _Well…perhaps it was_ , he admitted to himself, grudgingly. Still, how hard should it have been, ordering what essentially amounted to a glass of water and a bowl of tomato paste? He could make his own damn _borscht_ , if the waiter wanted to throw such a fit.

Clint shook his head and refocused his attention. He'd deliberately chosen a spot in the furthest corner of the room he could access. Unfortunately, the ideal spot he would have chosen was occupied. The marksman found himself studying the lone woman in the – in _his_ – corner. She was attractive, in a sharp short of way. Her eyes were hidden both by shades and some rather shaggy black bangs.

And she was all alone. At a table with room for five.

Clint frowned, studying her with little more than vague curiosity. A lone woman, seated in a booth meant for nearly half a dozen. Most patrons wouldn't bother, unless…

Unless, for one reason or another, they wanted their backs to the corner of the room.

He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting positions. Keeping one's back against a wall and granting them view of an entire area was a common trick used by war officers, war veterans and…agents. Having one's six exposed ran against every fiber of every agent's very being. Clint had done the very same thing, although he'd gotten stuck with a less-preferred spot. He picked up the thinly laminated menu the waiter had reluctantly tossed in his direction earlier and opened it, peering carefully over the top. There was little mistaking it – the woman was waiting for something, or someone. She had nothing but a couple glasses of water in front of her, one empty, and one barely half full. Barton guessed she'd been there for at least half an hour. Which was a pretty long time to wait for someone.

And apart from that, what were the chances that he'd find his pretty Russian spy exactly where he'd hoped, to?...

* * *

"Date stand you up?"

Natasha' brow furrowed slightly, and she regarded the blond American with little more than a cool stare. He grinned oafishly, offering her a highball filled with something thin and dark brown. She leaned back against the cheap vinyl cushion, tilting her head ever so slightly to her left.

Clint gestured to the drink. "Scotch and Coke. Although now that I think about it, you look more like a bourbon girl, than anything else. Can I sit?" He didn't wait for an invitation, before sliding into the seat across from her. Natasha blinked behind her sunglasses, but covered her shock well. The last thing the obnoxious American needed to know was that his bluntness had surprised her.

She rested her elbows against the cracked plastic coating the table, leaning forward. " _К сожалению , американский_. No English." She considered his initially confused expression a satisfying reward, before a playful grin replaced what had been bewilderment.

"Ah. See, I think you understand me just fine." He chuckled, resting his feet on the cushion just beside her. Natasha fought down the sudden urge to kick down his feet and press her favorite blade to his throat. _Cocky little shit…_ She thought herself in annoyance.

"Besides," the American continued, "my Russian ain't exactly up to speed." He pushed the glass closer to her, before leaning back. His intensely blue eyes seemed to study her with interest. They almost seemed to be laughing, he looked so amused. The assassin bristled. No one laughed at her.

"Leave. Now."

"You didn't answer me." The man shifted in his seat, running a palm through his hair. "About your date. Hard to believe someone would actually stand you up. I mean, look at you." He smirked. "You're a regular Victoria Bonya. 'Cept, you know. With red hair."

"Do not think that flattery – " She froze. Her back went ram-rod straight, and she suppressed yet another urge to slit the bastard's throat. Instead, she swallowed, once again forcing herself to appear cool, calm and collected. She removed her sunglasses, eyeing the man with no small amount of disdain.

"It is obvious you are as colorblind as you are stupid. I am no red-head." She watched the man stare at her a moment, before giving a casual shrug.

"Must'a been the lighting." He offered lamely, before sliding back out of the seat. He smiled at her, and Natasha briefly found herself wondering if he actually charmed American women as much as he clearly charmed himself. Then she found herself wondering why on earth she cared, in the first place.

"Take your drink with you."

"Keep it." He replied, shoving his hands into his pockets and heading toward the café door. "Consider it a gift from a secret admirer."

* * *

 _Americans…_ Natasha huffed angrily, pulling out a small amount of Serbian change and placing it on the table between the untouched highball and two empty ice water glasses. She stood, straightened her sundress and made her way hastily to the exit. The fool had distracted her long enough to almost make her miss catching her target leave. Still, his comment about her hair being red had shaken her. She could easily write it off as pure coincidence…but since when did coincidences exist in her line of work?

She had to be on her guard. If the American knew anything about her actual identity, he'd have to be eliminated. And quickly.

The assassin hastened across the busy intersection, eyes on the popular yogurt bar. Her target should still be inside, perhaps writing out the check for her order, or chatting up the counter boy she thought was impressed with her pedigree. She quickly turned the corner before nearly crashing into a man texting on his phone.

"Sorry, excuse me, I…" Her eyes quickly narrowed. "Who are you? Why are you following me?"

"Look." The blond American from the café raised his hands. "I know this looks weird…it's totally not." He gave her a lop-sided grin, and for a second, she nearly believed him. But instead of excusing herself, she gave him a hard shove back against the side of the yogurt bar. If any of the passerby noticed, no one said a thing.

"I will ask one more time." Natasha growled, slipping a small but no-less lethal blade from her sleeve and pressing it to the man's throat. "Why are you following me? And no games."

"Why would you even – okay, okay." The man seemed less bothered by the knife than Natasha would have expected. In fact, he looked disarmingly…relaxed.

"My name is Clint. Clint Barton." His blue eyes never left her green ones. "And no games." He agreed.

"Now why are you following me?" She filed away his name in her memory, knowing she'd have time to research him later. She pressed the blade tighter to his throat, noticing a single bead of sweat. So maybe he wasn't quite as calm as he tried to appear, she noted with some level of satisfaction.

"Honestly?" He cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you looked like someone else." Natasha caught her breath, eyes widening momentarily. The American continued, looking almost apologetic.

"I mean, I did. In the café, you looked…different. But you're not. I mean…" He shrugged a bit, at least as much as he was able, pinned uncomfortably against the uneven brickwork of the building at his back. "Look, if you want to do this, can we do this somewhere else? Somewhere less…public? Unless you're into that sorta thi–" He _oof'd_ heavily, rewarded with a sharp knee to the abdomen, and a flood of vulgar Russian choice words.

"Okay, okay! Sorry I asked!" He quickly backed away, hands still in the open and away from his sides. "Um, _c_ _иний ламы мыло_. No, wait…" He struggled to find the phrase he was looking for. "Извините, что я – "

"Get out of here, idiot." She hissed, smoothly slipping the blade back into her sleeve. As if she even needed a weapon to beat the man into a cold stupor. Or leave him exsanguinating on the hot concrete sidewalk. "Or you will lose something greater than your pride." She watched with dark eyes as the blond man hastily backed away, before turning around and shuffling back across the intersection. Emitting a frustrated huff, Natasha realized the damned American fool had not only caught her off-guard (and for the second time that day), he had also distracted her from making contact with her target, as scheduled.

 _Son of a bitch!…_ She thought angrily, to herself. An entire afternoon, all thrown to waste because some idiot tourist… She stopped, taking a moment to lean back against the same brick she'd held the man against moments earlier. While she was no stranger to men pushing themselves at her, and often used such animalistic intentions to her advantage, this one was particularly odd. He was slow to approach, but quick to leave both times. _Of course, I had threatened him with a switchblade_ , she reasoned with herself. You couldn't exactly blame a man for running off with his tail planted firmly between his legs, after that. But it unnerved her, how calm he had been. How, even as he had been attempting to flirt with her ceaselessly, his eye contact had remained unflinching. Steady. _Knowing_.

The assassin shook her head, narrowing her eyes. She didn't like not knowing someone's motivations. It was a foreign feeling, and she wanted it purged.

Natasha pulled out her mobile – only the latest, in an endless line of disposable cellphones – and dialed a number. She brought it to her ear and waited the usual two and a half rings.

"It's me. I may have a new lead I need to check out."

"Natalia." The voice on the other end was familiar, yet suddenly foreign. Her handler was under stress, automatically putting the assassin on her guard. "There's been a…complication. The Americans have sent an agent to find you."

Ice water shot through Natasha's veins. She took a slow breath, growing eerily calm just as quickly as she'd tensed up. She now had no doubts. No second guesses. She knew her target, and she had a plan. Everything would fall into place, as it always did.

"Do not worry, Volkov. I know who the American is. He will not be a problem, much longer."

* * *

моя девушка – my girl

собака – dog

К сожалению , американский – sorry, American

Извините, что я – sorry that I


End file.
